


The Heart of Azeroth

by systrami



Series: Why The Hell Would You Put a Troll In Charge? [2]
Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Crack, Drabble Collection, Gen, Humor, World of Warcraft: Legion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-21 08:13:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15553449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/systrami/pseuds/systrami
Summary: “We had to employ several shamans to stand by the edge, makin’ sure everyone who fell down came back up again,” the dwarf answered calmly.“Yeah, I know. It’s incredible how many people kill gods and dragons for a living but can’t tell the difference from solid ground and air. Still, we had wind spirits for that, yeah? They don’t need pay.”“The wind spirits were difficult. They didn’t really care where people ended up as long as it weren’t in the Maelstrom. On top of weapons, food, other people… It wasn’t safe.”“Or we could just put up a fence,” the goblin muttered under his breath.A collection of oneshots depicting Zenji's misadventures on the Broken Isles. Sequel to Patrolling Draenor.





	1. Well, One of Us Has To Go Home And Change

Zenji didn’t much care for the new base of operations. It was damp, drafty and the never-ending roar of the Maelstrom kept him awake at night. Sure, it had its advantages; as the Legion would never be able to find them. It also was good place for… well, nothing. Alright, so it had one advantage.

The commotion around him was palpable. Shamans from every part of the world were gathered here. Some he knew, such as Erunak, but most were unfamiliar to him. And hell if Thrall hadn’t been able to coax him into becoming the leader of them all.

Again.

He suspected it had something to do with the weapon, as he absentmindedly fingered the now familiar weight of the Doomhammer at his side.

Originally, Zenji had preferred spells over melee weapons, feeling more in tune with the elements that way. But when Thrall had offered him the fabled Doomhammer, the troll couldn’t help but to jump at the chance of possessing it. After all, electrocuting your enemies was nothing compared to clubbing them over the head with a giant mace.

He was certain the spirits would approve, anyhow.

He walked over to the edge of the cliffs overlooking the whirlpool, headed for the large stone altar that teetered on the edge. He was hesitant to alter the weapon, as he had been advised. According to Thrall, every wielder of the Doomhammer had tapped into different powers, making it unique for each and every one of them. Changing the legendary weapon was challenging for him because of many reasons; what if he ruined it somehow?

Still, he wished the altar hadn’t been quite so close to the brink of literal death, as there would be no way to survive were he to plummet down into the water, shaman or no.

On the way, he was greeted one of the newest arrivals, a draenai shaman he had never before seen. He nodded curtly and kept walking before doing a double-take and stopping abruptly. Nestled in the large hands of the draenai was a familiar looking mace; it was blue and crackling with lightning, but there was no doubt it was the Doomhammer.

“Hey mon!” he called out before he could stop himself.

The draenai turned and regarded him politely, before his gaze caught the troll’s weapon and his eyes widened almost comically.

“Where did ya get dat mace, mon?” Zenji asked, his voice forcibly calm.

“I… I received it when I defeated a demon lord,” the draenai replied. “How did you get yours?”

His accent was heavy and Zenji spoke very little Common as it was, but still got the gist of his words.

“I retrieved it from da Maelstrom. Thrall gave it ta me aftah Ah killed a demon wit’ it.” He narrowed his eyes.

“Well, I assure you I’m not lying when I say that was how I came by it, as well.”

Zenji scoffed. These upstarts couldn’t just leave well enough alone. He wielded the Doomhammer and of course there would be jealous people milling around, wanting to prove him wrong.

“Dere can’t be two Doomhammers, so one’s gotta be fake,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Unless both are,” the draenai countered.

“Of course dere not-“ He broke off, thinking back on the encounter with Geth’xun. Mylra had been critically injured in the fight, and as he had healed her wounds, the orc shaman had hung back.

Really, why would Thrall give up the famous mace, the weapon that had aided him through the foundation of the Horde and establishment of Orgrimmar itself?

Why would anyone give up the Doomhammer _willingly_?

Suddenly, he whirled around, his steps heavy and determined.

“ _Thrall!_ ”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile Thrall sits at home, stroking the actual Doomhammer, giggling as he thinks of the poor adventurers he has fooled.  
> “Mine,” he whispers. “My own. My precious.”  
> Anyway.  
> My aim is to make these oneshots mostly humorous, but Legion is making me kind of sad, guys.


	2. There's an App For That

Once again the demons had attempted to breach their holdfast. Advisor Sevel thanked the Spirits for the many abled shamans that now inhabited the caves. He, himself, still suffered from the injuries he had acquired from storming the Dark Portal close to a year ago, and was such unable to participate in the fighting.

Even though his body was frail he still possessed a keen intellect which he exercised daily when scoping out the possible attack locations and rescue missions all over the Broken Isles. The Farseer himself had said that Sevel had been invaluable to the cause.

Then again, the Farseer wasn’t exactly the sharpest weapon in the bunch, being a _troll_ of all things.

“Sevel!”

Ah, the aforementioned troll was making his way towards the draenai, clutching a slip of paper in his large, three-fingered hand.

“Yes?” Sevel answered pleasantly.

“Who approved dis mission?” the troll spat angrily.

The paper was being waved in front of his face and Sevel plucked it from the troll’s hands and unraveled it to read. The paper held a report from Skywall, where one of the champions had been sent to attempt to secure the aid of the Windlord. According to the report, the feat was proving difficult but not yet deemed impossible. That was good news.

The troll’s question, however, was not. Was it a test, perhaps? Sevel blinked a few times, attempting to get a read on the irate shaman.

He cleared his throat.

“Ah, well… You did, Farseer,” he supplied as delicately as he could, but knew he had failed as soon as the red eyes opposite him narrowed in suspicion.

“Ah did not,” he sneered. “Ah been in Dalaran for t’ree days now, mon. Returned jus’ now.”

Sevel blinked again.

“I assure you the order came from you yesterday.” He walked towards the large map, bending down to retrieve a large tome. He flicked through it, and finding the page he was looking for, showed it to the troll.

At the bottom of the page were the mission details listed neatly – as Sevel was meticulous about that – and beside them were the date and the scratchy signature of the Farseer.

“Ah…” the troll started. “How?”

Sevel considered the possibility of the shaman simply having too much to drink and forgetting his whereabouts, but that seemed unlikely, even for a member of the Horde.

“I simply don’t know, Farseer. Perhaps there are two of you?” he smiled. Or maybe the troll had mastered the art of using a device to communicate over long distances? But no, Sevel though, such a thing was simply _impossible._


	3. The Masks We Wear

”Did you see what Oriane was wearing the other day? I can’t believe she would walk out of her house dressed like that!”

“I know! It’s like she doesn’t even own a mirror!”

“Perhaps she doesn’t, I’ve heard that her father has lost a lot of money recently. It could be he had to sell all of them,” Arielle giggled demurely, despite her harsh words. “Nevertheless, we will hopefully see much less of her soon.”

“Oh, Arielle,” Céline chastised, though she was smiling. “You’re so mean!”

Arielle shrugged, flipping her long, lustrous locks over one shoulder in a movement that looked so natural and effortless that it had to have been practiced many a time. “I’m just being honest.”

Céline shook her head good-naturedly, pretending to be affronted, at least for appearances’ sake.

“Oh, isn’t that Anarys over there?” Céline pointed and her friend turned to look.

“It _is_!” the Nightborne cried. “Stop pointing, Céline, it’s rude.”

Arielle pranced over the walkway that was just one of many that stretched across the numerous canals in Suramar and intercepted Anarys Lunastre just before she managed to run off towards the Evermoon Commons.

“I haven’t seen you in forever! Where have you been?” she cried excitedly, tightly grasping her friend’s arm.

Anarys looked startled at being accosted by the slim elf and her gaze darted between Arielle and Céline with a confused look on her delicate face. This didn’t deter the Nightborne, and she continued to speak.

“I bet Ly’leth wouldn’t let you set foot outside now that she’s Advisor to Elisande. Honestly, is she worried you’ll ruin her reputation?”

“Preposterous!” Céline exclaimed before lowering her voice to a whisper. “I’ve heard rumors that she’s been seen running around with Outlanders. Can you imagine?”

Arielle huffed and turned her stare on Anarys again.

“What is that smell? Is it a new perfume?”

The youngest Lunastre hesitated for a short moment before nodding enthusiastically.

“Oh, I like it! It’s very earthy and… musky,” Céline cooed and her friend was quick to agree. “What is it called?”

“It’s… uh… Eau de Zandalar,” Anarys murmured.

“How exotic!” Arielle giggled. “Perhaps I could borrow some for the next gala? I’ve done everything to get Émeric to notice me and he doesn’t even realize I exist!”

She pouted, knowing that it enhanced her full lips and high cheekbones and it drew the attention of the pair of guards who passed them. Arielle smiled demurely and cast them a wink before turning back to her two friends.

“See! It works on _everyone_ else,” she whined.

“Maybe he’s not interested,” Anarys pointed out.

She was merely making a suggestion and wasn’t trying to sound unkind, but Arielle gasped and clutched her arm tighter.

“I’ve heard about this new diet where you ingest nothing but arcwine and you’re guaranteed lose so much weight. I think about trying it, and maybe Émeric will appreciate me then.”

Céline nodded enthusiastically but Anarys shook her head with a frown.

“You should just eat and live the way you want. If he doesn’t notice you, then that’s his loss. I’m willing to bet there are countless others in the world who would love you for who you are. Don’t try to change that,” Anarys said.

The youngest Lunastre smiled at the shocked looks on her friends’ faces and turned towards the Evermoon Commons again.

“I have to leave now, but think about what I said.”

Céline waved half-heartedly before turning to Arielle. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m fine. It just isn’t like Anarys to be so… so…”

“…nice?” Céline finished and Arielle nodded. “Still, she has a point.”

“Yeah, of course she does. I mean, she’s Anarys Lunastre! She practically creates every trend in Suramar.”

The two elves stood silent for a moment, staring towards the Commons where their friend had rushed off.

“Speaking of which, where do you suppose we find a large orange bird to wear atop our heads?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that Anarys is always the same gender as the player character, but I really needed her to be female for this to work properly. I had originally imagined this only as a tale of origin of the new Pepe-trend among the Nightborne, but Zenji turned out to be a bro by telling Anarys’ friends to believe in themselves and not just to settle for guys who don’t appreciate them.
> 
> I ship it now. Dammit.


	4. IOU

”Hey, dwarf!”

The shout came from behind her and Mylra turned to witness Journeyman Goldmine stalking towards her.

“Yeah, lad?” she answered, somewhat rudely as she had a name and the goblin refused to use it.

He reached her, somewhat out of breath and dropped the armful of scrolls he’d been carrying at her feet.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, gesturing to the scrolls.

The dwarf shaman narrowed her eyes, thinking it was some sort of trick question, or that Goldmine had electrocuted himself one time too many. She refrained from answering, and instead chose the more mature option and stared politely at him until he clarified his question.

She was proud of herself for that.

“As you know, I’m in charge of buying the upgrades for the order hall.  It’s a very important job, if not _the_ most important. Anyhow, I checking in with my associates, when the mail came and they dropped off all of this!” He gestured at the scrolls again.

It was a risky decision, she knew, making a goblin head of order hall upgrades. She had no doubt that Goldmine’s so called associates were nothing but a bunch of smugglers. Still, he had the connections and things got done. In a world where everything was going hell, no one really cared about anything other than results.

She didn’t reply and looked at him apprehensively. She hadn’t blinked in minutes and the effect was hopefully getting a bit creepy.

“Do you know what these are?!”

Mylra shook her head.

“They´re bills!” the goblin exclaimed. “Scrolls and scrolls of demands of gold!”

“Really?” Now she was curious. “Does it say what fer?”

Apparently, it was the question Goldmine had been waiting for her to ask. His face lit up in a manic grin, and she was annoyed to see that the effect of her creepy staring was nothing compared to that expression.

“It does, actually!” He picked up a scroll and read out loud, the sarcasm evident in every word. “This one’s from Breanni in Dalaran. Food, lodging and medical supplies for a dozen hippogryphs. Why should we pay for that?”

“Yeh know the flightmaster’s whistle? The Farseer got one so he could whistle for a ride instead a’ walkin’ everywhere. Turns out he’s been overusin’ it a little and the mounts got a bit banged up.” Mylra replied.

Goldmine snorted. “Fine, fine. I’ll pay it, but you have to talk to the troll about his flying habits.”

Mylra shrugged. “Sure.”

She wouldn’t.

“Okay next one.” The goblin picked up another scroll. “From the labor union of shamans – that´s a thing? Geez. – who are demanding hourly wages _plus_ supplementary pay for working difficult hours.” He shook his head. “What gives? I thought we were all saving the world and making profit. Not handing out wages!”

“We had to employ several shamans to stand by the edge, makin’ sure everyone who fell down came back up again,” the dwarf answered calmly.

“Yeah, I know. It’s incredible how many people kill gods and dragons for a living but can’t tell the difference from solid ground and air. Still, we had wind spirits for that, yeah? They don’t need pay.”

“The wind spirits were difficult. They didn’t really care where people ended up as long as it weren’t in the Maelstrom. On top of weapons, food, other people… It wasn’t safe.”

“Or we could just put up a fence,” the goblin muttered under his breath. He scribbled something on the scroll before rolling it up again. “Fine, but I doubt you’ll have an explanation for the last one.”

He cleared his throat. “Finally, a demand for a payment of seven hundred thousand gold to pay for the destruction and defacing of property – namely the Heart of Azeroth itself.”

The dwarf fidgeted with her weapon and looked down at her feet.

“Well…” she began.

“Yes?” he prompted, making a beckoning motion with his left hand.

“Morgl the Oracle asked to borrow the Farseer’s weapon. And he… well, he swung it ‘round, causin’ quite a bit a’ damage to his surroundings,” she mumbled. “But he swears it was an accident! At least that’s what I think he said…”

It became quiet after that and Mylra chanced to look up. Goldmine was looking at her in astonishment, his round eyes even larger than normal.

“You mean to tell me that the troll loaned out the Doomhammer – one of Azeroth’s most powerful weapons – to a _murloc_?!”

“Well, yes.”

Goldmine blinked several times. In fact, he stood completely still and his eyelids were the only thing that moved and Mylra became concerned she’d actually broken him somehow. Then he dropped the scroll on the ground and started stalking off towards the portal.

“Hey, wait! Where yeh goin’ lad?”

“I quit!”

“Yeh can’t quit!”

“Sure I can! This world is doomed anyway and I want to spend my last days lying on a demon-free beach counting my money.” And with that he disappeared through the portal back to Dalaran.

The dwarf shrugged and continued on with her patrol, expertly dodging something the ball that was flying around and was on fire (a common occurrence here). Goblins were so overdramatic sometimes.

 


End file.
